TRESTLES: HELLO SWELL, FRI 7.29.2011 MOR

SKUNKED AGAIN!

Crew: Khang

Ran into: Uncle Miles from Parks Beach.

Time: 0845-1200, 3 hrs. & 15 min.

Conditions: Onshore wind, 3-4 ft., inconsistent, decent shape, overcast to sunny, and warm.

Roll Call:

     I wasn't as tired as I thought I'd be from the surf. I planned on going back to HB in hopes that the new swell would produce some good waves. I asked around to see who could go. Khang was the only one who was down. He offered to pick up some coffee and help out with gas. What a nice guy. The plan was to meet up at 0600 and hit the road.

HB, do your thing:

     Khang shows up with Starbucks coffee in hand. We're only a couple minutes past six but still on schedule. Surfline upgraded the El Porto conditions with a fair 2-3 foot rating, but their morning forecast doesn't sound too promising. HB has to be the best bet. Yesterday I got skunked, so I can't get skunked two days in a row.

     It's nice to have a buddy in the car with me. The drive goes by fast as we bullshit the whole way there. Everything's in place. We plan on eating some good Vietnamese food for lunch after the surf, and we're excited for some fast, peaky waves. Khang notices the flags as soon as we pull up. They aren't just blowing, they are flapping so hard that they look like battle streamers on a navy vessel. I say, “Yeah, but HB can still be okay with wind. There's a chance that there's some shape.” We pass some guys changing into their wetsuits, but my parking area is desolate again like yesterday.

     “It's pretty overcast here,” says Khang. It's another gloomy morning, but this marine layer looks pretty thick all the way out to sea and inland. The overcast and the wind are a dreary combo. I'm optimistic. I still haven't seen the water, and I'm thinking that anything is possible. We get close to the shore and notice the swell. It looks 4-5 feet, but there is no shape. The waves wall up. There are a couple shoulders, but they are marginal. Two guys paddle out. The second they hit the water, the current starts dragging them north. We watch them paddle, step off in shallow water, and then get worked by the white wash. They never make it out. “That one looks fun,” says Khang. He motions towards a left that's at the end of a wall. I watch this wave, but I'm over it. Once again, it's not the image I had in my mind. No one is here for a good reason.

     On the way back to the car, we run into an old timer, probably an HB vet. We shoot the shit about the winds and conditions. “I'm going to check out Bolsa and see if the wind's any better,” he says.

     Khang raises his head from his iPhone and replies, “Nah, Bolsa has the same winds right now.” It appears that everything in the immediate area has wind on it. It's another disappointment, but I'm getting used to it. We sit in the car, check the surf report, and discuss our options. Going back to El Porto isn't one of them; there's no surf there.

And Another One:

     God damn, I never planned on doing this much driving this week, but HB looks like shit, I know Porto's not looking good, and I want some good surf. This will be day number two with crappy waves. Today, getting skunked is not an option. We're on our way to Trestles. The drive is fast again. We see the flags on the campers blowing as well, but those cobblestones have to be making the shape better. Old Mans and Churches is more crowded than yesterday. However, we see solid three foot sets peeling away right in front of us. The overcast and wind add an ominous tone to the waves, but the shape is all that matters. The rights are holding. We watch a guy get four hacks on a ride. We walk towards Middles to do more recon, but the consistency of waves makes us turn back around to suit up. “You want to paddle out over here or walk up there,” I ask. I point towards Middles where it's less crowded.

     “Yeah, but, it doesn't really look that great over there,” he says. I usually skip Churches to see what Middles is doing, and then I make my way back if Middles sucks. But on this morning I'm open to getting out of my routine. I've been making some bad calls lately, so I think it's good to go along with someone else's energy. We paddle at south Churches were we saw the guy get four hits. We scratch out on two waves that break towards the inside, and then the spot shuts down. We paddle to the next peak over, and the lull has started. Nothing. We paddle to the main peak where Khang decides to stay. I don't want to compete with the longboarders, so I head to the south end of Middles in hopes for a random peak to stray my way. Finally, I draw blood on my first left. The peaks are long, but not as much as yesterday. The wave is fast but good for some fun pumping and top to bottom trims. My second left is similar. Khang paddles to me and says, “Fuck man, every time I was in position I had to back out of the wave. One this one right, the guy behind me asked me to kick out. He said, 'Please, kick out.'”

     “Fuck, no shit? Well, at least he said 'please,'” I reply. As Khang arrives, a bump forms in the distance. I paddle out to catch it before it breaks. As I turn and go, I realize that I'm right at the peak. The slopy, forgiving Trestles wave allows me to take my time as I pop up. I drop in, set up for my bottom turn, and hit the lip once. On my second bottom turn, a couple longboarders from Churches back out. I get one more before my ride ends. It instills new life in me, especially after the recent skunks. It just might be a good day.

To the battle position!:

     “You were catching waves until I came,” Khang says. We joke about how the waves turned off with his arrival. The lull is long again, and we're already into the second hour.

I say, “Hey, lets go further north.” We paddle in front of the battle position just outside of a small crowd that's been there the whole morning. We don't get anything there, so we paddle further north just past the cliff. It doesn't take long before a wave comes my way. There's a guy on my right, but he doesn't know that I want to go left. As I pop up I yell, “Left!” I'm not sure if he hears me, but I'm going down the line for a decent ride. Lowers is working as usual. Khang and I watch surfers tear the shit out of that wave, but we're happy as well because the cliff begins to turn on. I catch one of my best lefts since being home. I drop in at the peak again, the section isn't running away, and the shoulder is wide open for me to do my worst. Unfortunately, my front side abilities aren't that great yet, but I gather speed and practice carving the lip. It's not working. I shift my feet to practice a cutback, and half way through the arc I spring out of the turn. I feel my tail slide down with power as I redirect my board. It feels . . . like magic, amazing. I don't know how to describe it, but it's a very new feeling that I've only felt a few times. I ride it until the wave's barely a foot high. I kick out over the the small lump that used to be a wave. Khang sees me and shakes his fist with a smile on his face. I hold both palms open with my arms out on each side. I'm stoked.

     My next wave is a right-hander that I catch at the peak again. I swear, this wave is so forgiving. The lip feels as if it's keeping me up there, but the drop is so naturally delayed that it's normal, and yet it's a four foot day?! Some of the waves are so good they are breaking like Lowers. The shoulder's a little steep, and I shoot up the wave for a hack. The wave's shape forces me back into the pocket with speed, and I go back up the face for a second hit as the lip is starting to curl. It's a late turn, so my nose purls because I'm practically vertical when I reenter. I spin around and get whiplashed as my back smacks the water. I resurface, I'm all right.

     I paddle back to Khang. I'm so fucking happy at this point. The session has been officially “made.” Those two waves already made the drive worth it. “Fuck, I need to catch one,” says Khang.

     Reminiscent of the young Aussie, Dillon, that I met in Bali, I reply, “The next wave's yours!” Well, Khang doesn't really need my help, as he catches a wave that forms slightly north of our position. It's about three feet, but there's a little shoulder on it. He returns. “How was that one?”

     “It was okay,” he says. A set wave forms on the outside, and he catches this one going right. From behind, the shoulder is holding again. I scratch out on the next couple. He comes back to tell the tale. It was a good one.

     Just then, an old timer paddles by us, gets my attention, and says to me, “Hey, thanks for that wave earlier!”

     “Ohhh . . .” I'm awkward. What is he talking about?

     “You said, 'Left!' I didn't know which way you were going, I thought you were going right!”

     “Oh, did you go right on that one?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Good, good!” I reply. Man, it always lifts my spirit to experience a friendly exchange in the water like that, all due to good surf etiquette. Nice. I now turn to Khang and say, “Man, now you've turned on and I've turned off.” With Khang's luck comes my dismay. We sit at this spot for the remainder of the session. Khang chooses to sit in front of the BP while I remain at the cliff. I catch more rides, but none are as good as those two earlier ones. I turn to see if I can spot Khang, but he's returning from the inside. I don't know if he's scoring or not, but he's definitely catching waves. At the third hour I find myself scratching out and mistiming the waves. The Book of Randy says to take a break after surfing for two hours. What happens is that you get hungry, tired, and you start making mistakes. Also, surfing tired leads to bad habits. I signal Khang who's sitting at a different peak amongst other surfers. I point to the shore and show my index finger. One more and I'm going in. My last wave isn't spectacular. The section runs away and I fall after forcing a top turn. It counts.

     Standing on the shore I feel my stomach tightening. I need to put some food in there. We walk back, side by side, praising this morning's score. He says that he got a lot of waves; we both got our fill in. Clean shoulders are still rolling through as we leave to grab some food. Right before we pull out we see a familiar face watching the surf. It's an older guy wearing water shades; we've seen him at 26^th. “We need to say hi,” says Khang. We go out and say wassup. His name is Miles, but Klaude refers to him as Uncle Miles. When we get back the tide is lower, and the wind is stronger. We eat our sandwiches as we contemplate the next move. The window of good surf is closed. Surfers leave the Churches' lineup until there are only a half dozen at the main peak. The drive back home is easy with a co pilot. We say our goodbyes and save our energy for tomorrow. Today we gambled, gambled and won.

MIDDLES: THE SKUNK, THU 7.28.2011 MOR

Another overcast moring

Crew: Solo

Time: 0845 – 1245, 4 hrs.

Conditions: Overcast then sunny, hot, inconsistent, 2-3 ft., poor shape (except Lowers).

Roll Call:

     I was actually a bit desperate to find someone to roll with me. I don't know why. I guess sometimes it's nice to have company, also I think that it's always safer to have a battle-buddy. Last night I hit up everyone, but they had obligations. Well, I'm the only unemployed bum out of all of my friends, so I can't expect everyone to be free. Oh, but Dave was down to surf. I told him that I'd take a look first to see what it looked like. I was tired. Lauren even told me that I'm wearing myself out. I set my alarm for 0530. I'd get at least five hours of sleep.

High Expectations:

     I try to prepare for the possibility of crappy conditions, but with the hype of the new swell coming in, it's hard not to be excited. I'm on the road heading back to HB, and I'm hoping that the swell's arrived early. If not, it would be nice to get some peaky, fast, little waves. Dave texts me that he's ready to go. It's 0645. I call him and tell him I'll follow up with a report. As I enter the parking lot I see some surfers suiting up. It looks like a good sign, however, my staging area only has one van there. There's a little wind, but it's light, lighter than a couple days ago. Once I make my way over the sand I see my surf spot completely empty. It makes sense; the surf looks like shit. There's a little more size, but the morning swell is making the waves wall up. I look further south where the main pack is. There are a lot of people, but it doesn't look much better.

     I'm not surfing it. There's no way. I didn't wake up early and drive here for this. It's sad; it's a disappointment. I pull out my phone to check the surf report. San Onofre is 2-3 + with occasional 4 ft. I didn't plan on driving all the way down south. The drives have been kicking my ass lately, but it sounds like a worthy gamble. The thought of clean waves from a new swell creates images in my mind. I picture myself at my Middles spot with clean waves all to myself, another wave buffet. I picture peaky, glassy, waves forming in the distance, popping up and having my way with an open canvas of water. I call Dave and invite him down south with me, but he can't. The longer I sit, the more traffic is building. I need coffee for the drive.

The quest continues. . . .

The Addiction:

     On the way to the 55N I wonder if there's something wrong with me. It's a long drive, a commitment to a gamble, and gonna hurt my wallet as far as gas is concerned. I could go home. There are a lot of things I can do. I can play World of Warcraft, clean the apartment . . . check my shit list to see what else I need to do. Or . . . I can surf. How can I not surf? I justify it in so many ways:

• I don't have kids right now, so now's the time.
• School starts next month, so I need to find good surf NOW.
• I don't have to work yet, but when I do I won't have as much time to surf.
• The new swell's here; it has to be good. I've waited for this moment since coming back from Bali.
• Everyday we die a little. We're getting older. Why not surf right now, while I'm still young?
• Fuck the system, fuck everything. This is life. It's so short. Make the best of it and chase some waves.

     I pull into Starbucks, grab a venti bold and a bagel. I'm gonna need the extra carbs. One long surf session, that's the plan. I'm not gonna stay all day unless it's good, especially since I'm running late as it is. I'm going to surf as long as I can in one sitting.

Back Again:

     The coffee's strong. I only take about four sips. It's working. As I pull into San Onofre I can tell that there's no wind. The texture on the water is so smooth and glassy. Waves are breaking where there usually aren't waves. I look back and see a swarm of surfers at Old Mans. In the distance I see packs of surfers at Churches. There's no need to see anything else. New swell plus clean conditions equals motherfucking fun! I wish that I could just jump in naked, but I remember that it's cold, and I'd be paranoid about a fish nibbling on my worm or my balls getting sliced by a fin. I park and take a gander. Churches is clean. I see a couple legit three footers come through. It looks fun. To the south there are some random peaks that nobody's on. I change in a heartbeat.

     In the ocean there's something riding the waves, something small. I don't realize what it is until I see a couple guys on the sand with remote controls. Cool! They have remote control surfers, and those little contraptions are realistically riding the waves. A small crowd has formed, even the lifeguards are watching.

A closer look:

     Churches always looks good when it's clean. It's packed with longboarders. I plan to surf north of Middles, but I paddle out at the end of Churches to see if I can score there. As I warm up I watch the surf. Middles doesn't have shit. I watch the break in front of me, and the peaks are coming in too long, meaning that the peaks aren't defined. Once the shoulder forms, the section way in front starts spilling and running away. The shoulders don't have that “Trestles peel” for that signature, rippable wave that Trestles is known for. I look up north at Middles. It looks like a fuckin' lake. Ohhhhh . . . fuck my ass. I'm not giving in. It can't be that bad. I paddle out and get a left. I'm on the shoulder, I drop in, and I'm pumping. I look ahead, and the section's already running away and turning to white wash. I catch three more waves, and it's the same. I make the paddle to the cliffs just south of Lowers. There's only one other longboarder there. The waves are a little inconsistent, but they come frequent enough. It's all the same. It's a race to get down the line and a prayer that the shoulder peels slower, but the peaks are stretched out so much. On a couple waves I crank out single turns, but they're on dissolving lips, weak. I find myself inching closer and closer to Lowers. I'm just south of Lowers, and I get my first wave with shape. It's a right-hander breaking on the inside. The shoulder peels slowly, so I set up and dish out two top turns. Finally, it's that feeling, exactly what I drove down here for. As I paddle back out, there's another one coming. I turn and go. Success! That's two good waves in a row. Fuck yes, this is my spot! There's a lull that follows. Some small shapeless waves come through. I scratch out on all of them. I look at my watch. It's been twenty-two minutes since those two waves that I just caught. Fuckin' A. It was the kiss that wasn't supposed to happen.

     I'm even closer to Lowers now. Fuck it. I wait for a wave to swing double wide or shift on the outside where I am. Nothing. I count the line up and stop at twenty when I'm half way through the pack. There are at least forty motherfuckers there, all for one fucking peak. Amazing. It's impossible. There are so many people that when a wave does come my way, someone's on it. I watch the show. Four guys take off together on some of the waves. When it's time to bottom turn, a couple of them bump into each other and eat shit. On top of that, there are so many heads to weave through. I don't have the same hunger as the last time I tried Lowers. I'm turned off by the crowd; it's not the way I like to surf.

     I paddle back to the cliff, and it's even more inconsistent. It's the first time that I've worked the whole Middles area. I paddle all the way to north Churches next to two longboarders. The rides still suck. I contemplate on invading the Churches' line up, but then the cliff seems to be working now. I was just there by myself, but now there are four guys on it. I slowly make my way back trying to get rides along the way. By the time I reach the cliffs again, there are about ten people there. I paddle just north of that pack, and the spot has turned on again. The waves are a little better now, but not by much. Still, it's a tall order to get a decent turn. The sun finally comes out, the wind picks up slightly, and the waves get more consistent. The main issue is the wave quality; that Trestles shape is just not there.

I Tried:

     I look at my wave counter. I surfed four long hours and caught thirty-five waves. It sounds like a good session, but it wasn't. I feel confident in saying that thirty-three of those waves sucked. Despite the lack of stoke, I can't help but take in my surroundings on that lonely trail. It's a silent walk back. The sand burns my feet, dragonflies buzz around me, the sun bakes my back, the wind is calm, and I can only hear the breaking waves behind the brush. I look at the ocean from the path. The green bushes, white sand, and blue ocean contrast each other creating small paradise. It doesn't feel like California, but I feel like I belong here. The drive home is brutal. I debate on pulling over for a nap, but I push on through. When I hit the 105 W, my senses sharpen as the finish line nears.

     This evening I stopped by Rick's house to grab my JS board. It turned out that a repair's not necessary. He said that the air bubble isn't sucking in water. I told him, “Man, I thought I'd catch that swell early, but it wasn't there yet. HB sucked, Trestles didn't have good shape. I got fuckin' skunked.”

     “Well,” he replied. “You just have to pay your dues.”

NOT MUCH, WED 7.27.2011 MOR

I doubt Francis had to piss as bad as I did, but he's relieved.

     “That's what friends do . . . they show up.” – Klaude K. 

 

Crew: Francis

Time: 0800-0945, 1 hr. & 45 min.

Conditions: Offshore wind turning to side shore, overcast, cool, 1-2 ft., weak, a very long wait for 3 ft.

    Francis lent me some of his surf porn yesterday. Out of the movies he gave me, I was most stoked about The Bruce Movie. He's the first guy I've met that has it, and I can't wait to watch it. I let him borrow three movies, selling Modern Collective as the best one. The plan was to rest on Wednesday. I didn't feel like driving to HB three days in a row, and I knew that local surf would be flat. Last night at 2205 I got a text from Francis asking if I wanted to surf tomorrow. This guy's more of a fiend than I am, I thought. I wasn't up for it, but I told him I'd check it out with him if he was going. As Klaude says, "That's what friends do . . . they show up."

Surfed Out:

     My hand takes over as it repeatedly hits the snooze button. There's no way that I'm getting up at 0630. At about 0700 I wake up to Francis's call. I answer and say, “What's up?” trying my best to not sound sleepy.

     “I'm leaving right now,” says Francis. The guy sounds stoked and ready to hit the water.

     “Okay, I'm getting up right now. I'll meet you there.”

     It's another banana breakfast morning. Just as I start my car I get another call from him. “I'm at Porto right now, there's like two feet on the sets.”

     “Okay, I'll be there in like two minutes.”

     “Whoa, but I'm surprised with how crowded it is. There's like . . . forty five people in the water. Meet me at 26^th!” I suppose it's not a bad call. I'm on 31^st St. when he calls again to let me know that there's free parking by the lifeguard station.

     On the way to the sand we can see two peaks working on both sides of the tower. They look around two feet and soft, but they are rideable. “So you liked Modern Collective?” I ask.

     “Yeah, it was good! I liked Dane Reynold's surfing.” We go on about our favorite parts of the movie.

     “I bet it made you want to surf, huh?”

     “Yeah, that's why I tex'd you last night!” he says. At this point it makes sense. It's a damn good surf flick, and he got so stoked watching it last night that there was no way in hell he wasn't surfing today.

     My body's tired. I feel my back muscles; they are sore. They want time to heal, but I keep on working them, stopping short of one-hundred percent recuperation. We paddle out right in front of the tower, and I get a clean two-foot left. I'm stoked to get a nugget on a dismal day of surf. The wave is significantly weaker than HB, slopy, but I manage to pump, do a novice cutback, and stay where the power is. The longboarders watch. They must be thinking that we're crazy for coming out on small boards, but yet I'm on a wave. The lulls aren't long in the beginning. For the first hour there is enough consistency to keep us busy, but the waves are weak. I see Francis get some spray. I try to set up for a turn, but I just don't feel the speed to do so. On a right, I force a top turn on a wave that's the opposite of “standing up.” I don't know what I'd call that. A wave that's “lying down” perhaps? Well, I fall because there was no real lip to bash in the first place.

     After the first hour, the lulls are noticeably longer. We sit, drift, paddle back, sit amongst the other surfers, and wait. “I don't think you'll be surfing like Dane Reynolds today,” I tell Francis. He laughs, but we both know that the morning's surf is pretty much shot in the ass. Despite the lull, Francis catches a decent right. He paddles back just in time for another random right that's forming. I paddle for it, but he takes that one again. He's on fire. After the next lull, another right comes. He's in position for it, but he passes it up so I can take it. Unfortunately I'm out of position for it. He didn't have to do that, but it's nice that he's sharing.

     He says he's ready to call the session. I agree. Just then the wave of the day appears. Most of this morning's peaks are long, but this one is well defined and forming into a fun, steep drop. An old, local longboarder, who always wears shades, is in between us. As Francis and I scrape our way into the wave, the local guy decides to give up and let us have it. I'm grateful. I look back and see Francis going left. Coast clear! I go right and set up my top turn with a delayed bottom turn. I have no technique for timing. If the wave is good, it just feels right to shoot up the face at a certain moment. I may be too excited. I top turn, but I don't believe there is momentous spray. Nonetheless, it feels good, best wave so far this morning. I set up for another top turn but stall after I hit the lip. That wave makes the session worth it.

Boy Toy:

     From there I struggle to find the cherry on top. Francis found it a while ago and rides the inside while he waits for me. I get a right. The section's long and about to close out. I force a turn, but the wave's already foam. We go back to our cars to change. I damn near piss my pants while getting out of my wetsuit. I put on my shorts that are falling from my waste and go to the restroom. A tiny stream of piss escapes. Please don't show through my shorts. I don't have a shirt on, but I shaved my pubes a couple days ago, so I'm not “mushroom clouding” it above my waist line. The guy cleaning the bathroom is nice enough to let me piss. I accidentally let a fart out, but he says nothing, a true professional. As I'm walking out, there is a huge, fat, Black chick that's on community service, pitch black. She's staring at me as I walk out. It's awkward. I say, “Good morning.” Her gaze follows me as I pass, and I hear her say, “Good moor-neeeeeeeeeeeng. Mmmmmmmmmm.” I'm blessed with the appetite of a tyrannosaurus, but God has also cursed me with situations like this. Growing up, my friends got the hot chicks. Me? I got attention from girls I wasn't attracted to. Of course, don't get me wrong. I'm sure she's a nice person, and whatever she did to get on community service was nothing major. I'm sure she makes a damn good pumpkin pie too. Anyway, tomorrow is the real deal, the first pulse of the new swell. What, oh what, will happen?